October Read online

  “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I don’t know anyone who has. I mean, people have said they’ve seen them, but I think it’s more like an urban legend, personally. Well, except that Auburn isn’t exactly what you’d call urban.”

  Wroxy looked despondent. “No,” she said. “That’s for sure. Man, I miss home.” She brightened. “Hey, if I tell you something, will you keep it a secret?”

  “I guess. What?”

  “‘I guess’ isn’t the answer I was looking for, dude. Can you keep it a secret or not?”

  “You haven’t told me anything yet,” he said, beginning to enjoy bantering with the girl. It was something of a novelty. “How can I keep something secret that you haven’t told me?”

  “Swear!”

  Mikey smiled. “All right. I swear. What?”

  “I’m a witch,” Wroxy said proudly. “You know. Like, I have powers. I can make things happen. I can cast spells and shit.”

  Mikey stared at her blankly. Wroxy fumbled inside her black jacket and withdrew a large pentacle on a gold chain. She brought it closer so that Mikey could inspect it more closely. He peered at it, then pulled away.

  “You know, around here you could get beaten up for wearing something like that to school,” he said. “They call that kind of stuff Satan worship around here.”

  “Witches don’t believe in Satan. In the craft, there’s only energy. It comes from the earth, and from the god and the goddess.”

  “Well, in Auburn that’ll get you into trouble. But yeah, I won’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “You do believe me, don’t you?” Her voice was hopeful. “That I’m a witch?”

  To Mikey she sounded a little worried, as though it actually mattered to her what he thought of her. He was momentarily confused, then stunned to realize that Wroxy actually seemed to be making overtures toward a bond of friendship. For some reason this strange new girl wanted him to like her. For the first time, he saw something beneath her bluster that brought her closer to earth, made her seem more of the sort of girl who might perhaps have some insight into what it was like to be Mikey Childress 24/7.

  “Yeah, I believe you,” Mikey said gently. “I believe that you’re a witch. And no, I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

  “Does that freak you out? You know, that I’m into this stuff?”

  Mikey mutely offered her his knapsack. Wroxy reached inside and pulled out Weaveworld. She opened the book and frowned when she saw the page that had been damaged when it had fallen onto the floor of the lunchroom. With a light touch, she smoothed the page and closed the book, replacing it in Mikey’s knapsack. She handed the knapsack back to him, and another moment of recognition passed between them.

  “Barker rocks,” she said approvingly. “Weaveworld is one of my all-time favourites of his. It’s not really horror, but it has some awesome moments that are scary as hell. Like the scene of that angel coming back to life or whatever and burning up everything in its path as it tries to get at the hero. Totally awesome. I love his stuff. And Hellraiser is my all-time favourite movie of his. I love horror fiction.” Her eyes were shining. “It’s all I read, basically.”

  “Me, too,” Mikey said. “Pretty much nothing else. I don’t know anyone here who’s like that.”

  “Poor baby. Try being a girl reading horror fiction. We’re all supposed to be reading Sweet Valley High or some such shit.”

  “These people think horror is sick or something.”

  “These people,” Wroxy said, “are, basically, cattle. If any of them had an original thought, they’d make sure it was okay with their friends first.” She stood up. “Come on, dude.” She gathered up her black bag and turned to look at Mikey. “We have to get back inside. The bell will be ringing for class any second, and we don’t want to get you in any more trouble than you already are.” She extended her hand. “You can sit next to me if you want.”

  “Hey,” he said, curious in spite of himself. “Can you cast a spell on Dewey Verbinski? Can you make him look like a troll or something?”

  “Dude,” Wroxy said dryly. “If you mean the guy who tripped you, it looks like someone beat me to it.” She giggled. Her hand was still extended. Mikey hesitated, then took it.

  That was the beginning of a friendship that was literally life-sustaining, at least to Mikey.

  Of course, Mikey soon told Wroxy about the witches of Auburn, and all the other stories as well.

  Then, three inseparable years passed, and it was August.

  [6]

  Wroxy had been christened Roxanne, a name she had detested from childhood. She’d gone from Roxie to Wroxy six years ago when she was ten and still living in Vancouver. In an act of stunning self-actualization and prescience, she had remade herself, deciding that since her peers hated her anyway, she was going to be the most dramatic-looking pariah at any school she attended, ever.

  “They look like boiled beef,” Wroxy had told Mikey contemptuously during the first winter of their friendship. She’d surveyed the lunchroom crowd from the vantage point of the farthest table as they filed past the hot food counter. “How did Scotch-Irish people get to be so stuck up about their origins? Look at those girls—big asses, red faces, blue eyes. Ugh. Spare me. And that’s just the girls. Don’t get me started on the guys.” Wroxy shivered delicately and took another sip of her Diet Coke.

  “Isn’t your mom Scottish? I could have sworn she was.”

  “My mother’s family is Welsh, originally. Big difference. The Welsh are known for their mysticism and their awareness of the spirit world. Stevie Nicks is Welsh, you know. That’s what the song ‘Rhiannon’ is about.”

  “Stevie who?” Mikey had known full well who Stevie Nicks was. He had lip-synched enough Fleetwood Mac songs in the privacy of his bedroom to not only know but imitate her perfectly: arms akimbo, flipping his imaginary hair in time to his snapping hips, his woolen winter scarves flying like Stevie’s silk ones in the videos.

  “Never mind,” Wroxy had snapped. “You’re hopeless.”

  Often Mikey told Wroxy that she looked a little like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, a generous exaggeration on Mikey’s part that Wroxy took with a grain of salt when she contemplated her doughy, shapeless body in the mirror every morning as she dressed in her uniform of all black. Her skin was pale, usually clear and lovely, something Wroxy’s mother always pointed out to her when she was bewailing Wroxy’s spikey, dyed-black hair, or her weight, or her Goth clothes.

  “That’s what they tell all us fat girls, you know,” Wroxy said one Saturday afternoon as Mikey watched her apply her shoplifted MAC makeup in the mirror of her basement bedroom, which was painted blood red.

  “You’re not fat,” Mikey had said with reflexive loyalty.

  “Yes I am,” Wroxy had replied. She shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “What do they tell them?” Mikey was fascinated by makeup. He loved watching Wroxy apply it. Wroxy layered her foundation and powder thickly in a shade that went beyond ivory and into the realm of white. She smudged black eyeliner and shadow around her blue eyes, then painted her lips deep purple. Mikey thought she looked beautiful.

  “They tell them, ‘Oh you have such pretty skin!’ Or, ‘Oh, you have such pretty eyes!’”Wroxy’s laugh sounded like a short bark. “What they really mean is, ‘Oh, too bad you’re so fat because otherwise you’re not completely fuck-ugly.’”

  “I think you’re beautiful.” And then he’d added timidly, “I’d have sex with you.”

  Wroxy had smiled. She’d looked at him in the mirror and said, “No, you wouldn’t, baby, but thanks for saying it anyway. I appreciate the compliment all the same.”

  “I would!”

  “No, you wouldn’t. And you know why, too, so stop it.”

  “Why?” Mikey had asked, dreading what her answer would be, also suspecting that Wroxy was too kind to make him feel small by using words in this particular context that would not be retractable later. Alt
hough they were the same age, Wroxy seemed more like a big sister. The fact that she genuinely seemed not to care what people thought of her, when Mikey cared passionately about what people thought of him and, in fact, was desperate to be liked or even loved, occasionally created a gulf between them. On one side was Wroxy cheerfully giving Auburn the finger; on the other was Mikey, gaping in reverential wonder at her courage, at the same time half-wishing he was part of the cliques she was giving the finger to.

  “Just because,” Wroxy said lightly. She smudged her purple lipstick with her little finger and checked the effect in the mirror with a practiced, critical eye. “Hand me my shawl, would you?”

  “Tell me!”

  “Mikey, do you really want to talk about this now?”

  “I want to know what you meant,” Mikey pleaded. “Please.”

  What had followed was the most intimate discussion Mikey had ever had with anyone. Wroxy told him that it had been obvious to her for some time that he wasn’t interested in girls, and that it was okay with her. “Hell,” she’d said, “it’s even kind of cool.” On the nights that she’d manage to sneak away from Auburn to Toronto and the Goth clubs on Queen Street, she’d seen a lot of gay guys and their boyfriends. It was no big deal in the real world, just here in this shitty little redneck town.

  “How do you know I’m not interested in girls?” Mikey had asked. It was a weak pro forma effort at a last-ditch defence of his manhood. He was torn between the sense of a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders and a Pandora’s box of secret desires being opened and released once and for all. He felt giddy and lightheaded at the same time, and his belly seemed gravid with dread. Knowing or suspecting something, especially about oneself, wasn’t the same thing as saying it out loud.

  “Look, baby,” Wroxy said, sitting down on the bed and taking Mikey’s hands in hers. “Sometimes girls know about gay guys even before gay guys know. You following me so far?”

  Mikey nodded, wide-eyed. He wasn’t remotely following her, but he was spellbound, nonetheless, by the possibilities her words implied, possibilities he hadn’t dared to entertain. I’m not gay. I’m not gay. I’m not gay.

  And then: Am I?

  “It’s like this. You’re a sensitive guy, you don’t play sports, and the jocks hate you.” She laughed at that. Wroxy detested jocks. “You’re more like a girl in a lot of ways, and maybe that’s one of the reasons you and I are best friends. We like the same sort of stuff—the Anne Rice books, the music . . .” Wroxy paused. “Well, maybe not music. I can’t stand that Madonna and Mariah Carey shit you love so much. But even still, we’re a lot alike. Look at us here this afternoon, for instance. You’re not out playing hockey or even hanging around the Milton Mall trying to pick up girls. You’re watching me put on my makeup like it’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen. If you ever wanted to try it, you know. . .” Her voice was tentative and gentle, as though she were afraid to offend him, or spook him, or break the spell. She let go of his hands and gestured toward the pots and tubes that littered her dressing table. “That would be, like, totally cool with me. I’ve seen makeup on Goth guys at the club, and it looks great.”

  Mikey stared at her. He felt as though he had fallen down an elevator shaft, or off a cliff, and was testing his body to see which bones he had broken. For some reason, he didn’t feel as though any bones were broken. So far, all seemed to be intact. He began to cry.

  “Oh my God,” Wroxy said, horrified. “I’m so sorry, Mikey. Hey . . . hey . . . please don’t cry. I feel like shit now. Oh my God, I knew I should have kept my big fucking mouth shut.” She stood up clumsily and banged her knee on an open dresser drawer. She shouted, “Fuck!” Wroxy rummaged through her cosmetics case in search of a tissue. She found one that was clean, if crumpled, and handed it to Mikey who dabbed delicately at his eyes. “Okay, look. Just ignore everything I just said if you want, okay?”

  “Well, what if I am . . . gay?” Mikey was sobbing. “What if it’s . . . wrong? What if I go to hell?”

  Wroxy laughed uproariously. She hugged him. Mikey smelled sandalwood perfume oil and cigarettes.

  “What do you mean go to hell?” she said. “You’re in hell already, Mikey.” Wroxy laughed again, and this time the laugh sounded a little darker. “That’s what this town is. It doesn’t get any worse than this, and it gets a fuck of a lot better someday when we get the hell out. You watch. Jesus, listen to you—‘go to hell.’ You sound like one of the Holy Stripers.” Wroxy giggled. She picked up her purse from the floor and reached into it. She pulled out a joint and looked up at the ceiling guiltily. Wroxy lit the joint, inhaling deeply. She blew out a plume of sickly sweet smoke.

  “Are you nuts?” Mikey was shocked. “Your mother can smell that!”

  “My mother has been smoking cancer sticks her entire life. She can barely smell her own shit in the morning.”

  Mikey giggled. Wroxy extended the joint to him, but he shook his head in prim refusal, thinking of what would happen at home if his mother smelled pot on his clothes. Donna Childress didn’t smoke, and she could smell pot a mile away. She called it a gateway drug.

  “My mom sure as hell isn’t going to smell this little joint. Besides,” Wroxy added, “I’ll tell her it’s a new perfume.”

  “Make sure you spray something around the room to kill the smell anyway,” Mikey said, fretting. “It smells pretty strong and your mother isn’t stupid. She’ll know it isn’t a new perfume.”

  “Whatever,” Wroxy said. She sounded bored with the topic. She took another drag. “Dude, I think you just came out.”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “Mikey, chill.” Wroxy sighed. “You’re so uptight. I’ve never seen you this uptight. ‘Coming out’ is what they call it when gay guys and lesbians tell someone they’re gay.”

  “I didn’t tell you I was gay, you told me I was gay. It’s not the same thing.”

  “So you’re not gay?” Wroxy made a wry face. “Mikey, I’m your best friend. I won’t tell anyone, but honestly, don’t you think it’s better this way? We can talk, like, honestly. You can tell me about what it’s like when you like a guy and you’re gay, and I can tell you what it’s like when I like a guy and he’s . . . well, I don’t like any guys in Auburn. They’re all losers.”

  “Not all of them,” Mikey said softly, thinking of Jim Fields, who had broken his heart, but whom he still pined for and yearned to forgive.

  “Name one,” Wroxy challenged him. “Name one nice guy from among the assholes who beat you up and call you a faggot every day, or call me a whore and a Satan worshipper.”

  Mikey was silent. He realized that clandestine crushes on his male classmates, however pleasant they might be in his daydreams and night fantasies, weren’t the same thing as being able to say that the boys he was in love with were nice people.

  “I didn’t think so,” Wroxy said smugly.

  “Don’t you ever wish you had a boyfriend? I mean, don’t you ever wish you were in love?”

  “Please,” she said. “I have the rest of my life to fall in love.”

  “I don’t feel like I have the rest of my life to fall in love. I want to be in love now. I want what everyone else has.”

  Wroxy snorted. “Not another word about love until you admit some things, Mikey. Not another word from me until you say, ‘Wroxy, I’m gay.’ I’m fucking serious, dude. Either we’re best friends or we aren’t.”

  “Of course we’re best friends,” Mikey said weakly. “You know that. But . . .”

  “No ‘buts,’ Mikey.” Then, softening. “Please?”

  Mikey took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I’m gay,” he said. He exhaled. The air came out as a shudder.

  Wroxy stood up and crossed over to where he was sitting on the floor. She stroked his hair lightly with one hand, then gently lifted his chin up so he was looking in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she said gently. She embraced him, pulli
ng Mikey in close. He inhaled her comfortable scent.

  “Please, please, please don’t tell anyone,” he pleaded. “I trust you. I don’t trust anyone else. People would kill me if they knew about this.”

  “Don’t worry,” Wroxy promised. “This is our secret. And it’ll be so much better now, too. We’ll be like sisters.”

  “I may be gay,” Mikey said indignantly. “But that doesn’t make me a girl. It doesn’t make us sisters.”

  “Oh, Mikey,” Wroxy said in her most world-weary tone. “You have so much to learn about the vernacular of gay people. You know what vernacular means, right?”

  “Of course I do,” said Mikey, who didn’t, but wasn’t about to let on. “So what?”

  “Gay guys often call each other ‘sisters,’ and they call their girlfriends—their friends who are girls—‘sisters.’”

  “Where do you get this stuff? I mean, I’ve never even heard this shit, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be gay.”

  “Oh, at the clubs in the city most of the girls have guy friends who are gay. You pick this stuff up, you know. It’ll happen to you, too, once you get out of this shitty town and start hanging around with people who are genuinely cool, not fakes like these veal calves in Auburn. One of these nights you have to sneak away from your house so we can go to the city and hit Queen Street. I’m going to take you to a fetish night at one of the Goth clubs.”

  “One step at a time, Wroxy.” Internally, he reeled between euphoria and dread. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay. I actually said it out loud. “I just told you the biggest secret of my life. I’ve never told anyone else. I haven’t even admitted it to myself in actual words.”

  Wroxy said, “Mikey, congratulations. And Happy Birthday.”

  “It’s not my birthday. My birthday is in August.”

  “It’s your birthday,” Wroxy said, smiling. “You just came out. Trust me, it’s your birthday. This is the first day of your real life.”

  [7]